


Mummy's Good Girl

by Willendorfer



Category: Calliope St. James, How I Met My Mommy, My Little Panda Girl
Genre: Analingus, Art, BBW, Breastfeeding, Canadians, Cunnilingus, F/F, Judaism, Lactation, Lesbian Sex, Maud Lewis, Older Woman/Younger Woman, Self-Acceptance, anal penetration, feeldoe, macromastia, mdlg, micromastia, mommy-domme, nonviolent d/s, romantic, zaftig
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-21
Updated: 2019-11-21
Packaged: 2021-02-16 09:02:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 19,765
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21505321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Willendorfer/pseuds/Willendorfer
Summary: 20-year-old Chavah Goldblatt sees herself as a loser, ashamed of her own artistic talents, until she meets Joyce Urquhart, the gorgeous older woman who wants to be her 'Mummy'.
Relationships: Original Characters - Relationship
Comments: 4
Kudos: 63





	Mummy's Good Girl

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [How I Met My Mommy, My New Little Life, My Life as Her Good Girl, My Little Panda Girl](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/536551) by Calliope St. James, aka LunaCeMore. 



> This work is inspired by Calliope St. James' (aka LunaCeMore's) excellent romance series about Chrissy and Maria: How I Met My Mommy, My New Little Life, My Life as Her Good Girl, and My Little Panda Girl, a well-crafted and sensitive exploration of a budding MDLG (Mommy-domme-little-girl) relationship. I found myself troubled by the (mild) punishment elements in those stories, though, and decided to write my own nonviolent MDLG story. It's set in Ontario, so the characters say 'Mummy' rather than 'Mommy', 'till' instead of 'cash register', and other Canadianisms. All sexually active characters are over the age of eighteen.

Oh _poopy_! I just discovered several big boxes of merchandise in the back that nobody had warned me about -- cold medicine, potato chips, ramen noodles, the usual convenience store crap -- that all have to be put out on the shelves. It's Tuesday night, 8:35, three and a half more hours till my shift ends. Dwayne should have done it, while I worked the till, but Dwayne never showed up for his shift. Which means I'll have to duck into the back whenever I can, in-between customers, bring the stuff out box by box, and do the restocking myself. I won't get any slack time to do my colouring tonight.  
  
Not colouring books. I mean, don't get me wrong, I love colouring books, but I've come to find them a bit too limiting. I felt like doing butterflies, and I ran out of colouring books with pictures of butterflies a while ago, so why can't I make my own butterflies? People react strangely when they meet a twenty-year-old girl who still likes to colour pictures of butterflies. Or flowers. Or birds. Or kitty-cats. But the colouring makes me happy, OK? I like making them; I like looking at them afterwards. At the start of my shift, I put up several of my butterflies near the till, to cheer myself up a little.  
  
So, yeah, I'm weird. The high school guidance counsellor told my parents I'm 'lacking emotional maturity', borderline Aspergers, but otherwise cognitively normal, whatever that means. In high school I got inappropriate crushes on my female teachers, which I suffered through in silence. I'm kind of a nerd, but I barely graduated grade twelve, never mind trying university. I'm super-awkward at talking to people I don't know well. I haven't learned to drive. My dad has to balance my chequing account for me and do my taxes. I need financial help from my parents to cover rent on my dingy little apartment. My parents are both medical doctors, my sister is in law school ... but me, I work at the Seven-Eleven in the west end of Guelph, Ontario. A weirdo loser, that's me. So if my colouring makes me happy, I've got few enough other things in my life to be happy about, OK?  
  
The after-dinner rush has tapered off now. The store is empty for the moment. I'm about to head into the back and begin sorting through the boxes. _Tingle-ingle_ , the door opens. Omigod, it's her again. My heart flutters. She nods and smiles at me in greeting and I silently melt. I noticed her last night. She's older -- about my mum's age I guess -- but so beautiful I can't help myself. She's plump, deliciously Rubenesque -- the Yiddish word would be _zaftig_. I wish I could just snuggle up in her arms, relaxing into the softness of her body. She's dressed a bit more formally tonight: an elegant oatmeal sweater, a tweed pencil skirt and suede boots. Her light-brown hair is twisted in a soft bun. Here I go again with one of my inappropriate crushes. She heads to the freezer and gets out a single ice cream sandwich. Just like last night.  
  
'I'm getting addicted to these, it seems,' she smiles as she approaches me at the till. 'Not very helpful for my figure, but they make a nice evening snack, and I need a break from marking papers.'  
  
She's a teacher then, I note to myself. There's radar and gaydar, and apparently I have teacher-dar. I want to tell her she doesn't need to worry about her figure, but I don't trust myself to say anything. Wordlessly, I ring up her purchase.  
  
'By the way, I wanted to ask you about these butterfly drawings.'  
  
'Oh ... sorry, um, I should take them down, I guess they look pretty dumb ...'  
  
'Dumb? They're exquisite!'  
  
'Um ... you ... you like them?'  
  
'I love them! You're the artist?'  
  
‘Artist? Um, I guess ...’  
  
'The way you combine your colours, I've never seen anything quite like them. Startling ... in a very good way. They remind me a little of Maud Lewis; do you know her work?'  
  
I shake my head. I suddenly feel self-conscious, in my pink Elmo t-shirt, my hair in frizzy pigtails. My mother tells me I dress like a six-year-old, but I generally don't feel comfortable in grown-up-looking outfits. Working at the till of a Seven-Eleven, no one really looks at me anyway. But what must this woman think of me? To my horror, I realize my nipples are standing out like bullets beneath my t-shirt. I grab my drawing pad and cover my chest with it.  
  
'Could I buy one of these drawings from you, dear?'  
  
'Oh ... no ... I couldn't take money for them. They're just my weird, um colouring ... hobby, I guess. You can have them. You're the first person who likes them.'  
  
'And I couldn't take them from you for free, dear. Tell you what, could I just take a picture of them, with my phone camera? I'd like to show them to a friend of mine. And my name is Joyce. Joyce Erkert.'  
  
'Sure, um, go ahead, Joyce.'  
  
She takes out her phone and snaps some pictures.

'And ... what's your name dear, if I might ask?'  
  
'Oh, I'm Chavah.'  
  
'Kava?'  
  
'Chavah, it's the Hebrew version of Eve, or Eva. Chavah Goldblatt.'  
  
'Of course, like the youngest daughter in _Fiddler on the Roof_. I recognize it now. It's a beautiful name, and you're a beautiful artist, KHavah Goldblatt.' She makes an exaggerated effort to pronounce it correctly.  
  
'I’m not really an artist. I just do these weird colouring things.'  
  
Her face gets sad/stern. 'They're not weird, Chavah, they're beautiful.'  
  
She pauses, as though making up her mind.  
  
'Chavah, I don't want to hear you using that ugly word “weird” about your art again. I want you to be a good girl for me, and be proud of your art. Will you do that for me, Chavah? Will you be my good girl?'  
  
 _Her good girl._ The very phrase, the mere idea that it could be, lifts my heart like a hot-air balloon ... that I could be the object of this amazing woman's approval and praise; that I could do things to make her happy; that she would look at me and smile that heart-warming smile of hers, not just once but often, on an ongoing basis. Her good girl. Suddenly, pleasing this woman seems the most important thing in the world to me.  
  
'I ... I want to be your good girl.'  
  
The words slip out before I can stop myself. I sound like a needy toddler, I know. But Joyce's face lights up with approval.  
  
'I'm glad. Very glad.' Still beaming at me, she writes down her phone number on a slip of paper, along with her name, Joyce Urquhart. Ah, so that's how she spells it. I've seen that name before in writing and never known how it was pronounced: Urquhart = Erkert. 'Call me, tomorrow morning, good girl. Don’t forget.'  
  
A guy with greasy blond hair and bad body odour comes up behind her. She steps out of his way.  
  
'Pack of Mar'b'ros eh. And this beef jerky,' he mutters sullenly, handing me a wad of crumpled up fives.  
  
I get him his cigarettes and ring him up; he leaves. Joyce is gone.  
  
I take the paper with her name and number and carefully enter the information in my phone. I put the paper safely in my wallet, just in case. Then I get to work on my next drawing, a portrait of Joyce Urquhart. Forget the restocking, Zach can do it on the graveyard shift.  
  
* * *  
  
I've been up since six a.m., going over in my mind my strange, wonderful encounter with Joyce the night before, and putting finishing touches on my drawing of her. But I wait till 8:30 to call her.  
  
She says she's so glad I called. She asks if I have to work today, and I tell her not till four. She asks if I could meet her for a walk in Howitt Park at ten. I ask doesn't she have to be at her school. No, she says, her classes are just on Tuesdays and Thursdays, though she has a faculty meeting at three. She teaches history at U of G. (So, she's not just a teacher then; she's a university professor -- so very far out of my league, if I even have a league.) She tells me to be a good girl and dress warmly, it's turning cold.  
  
I know it's odd the way she keeps telling me to be a good girl ... but I absolutely _love_ it. It makes me even hotter for her. I’d do anything to hear her call me her good girl again. Oh _poopy_ , I don't even know if she's gay. She doesn't know I am. She might be happily heterosexually married for all I know. This is just a walk in the park, not a date, I remind myself. But still, I can't wait to see her again. I brush my teeth and shower, then put on my pink turtleneck and green corduroy jumper dress, with my brown wool tights. I put my hair in pigtails again. I say my morning _shacharit_ prayers, adding a special request to Adonai to please bless my meeting with Joyce, whatever happens. I put on my jacket and a scarf and mittens. Then I head out the door.  
  
I find her waiting on a bench in Howitt Park. A few babies and toddlers are being perambulated around in strollers by mothers and nannies.  
  
'You look lovely this morning,' she says, beaming at me.  
  
'Um, I have something for you ... it's a present. I hope you like it.'  
  
She takes the folder from me and opens it.  
  
'Oh my ... is ... is that _me_? You made this for me? Oh, my sweet darling girl ...' There are tears in her eyes.  
  
'Do you like it?'  
  
'Oh, sweetie, I _love_ it, that's the nicest present anyone's ever given me, truly. It's incredible.'  
  
We're sitting quite close to each other, I look up into her hazel eyes, and then she's leaning forward and kissing me, gently, on the mouth.

Oh.

My.

God!

So this is kissing! ... I respond eagerly. Her lips are so warm and soft against mine. I want this to go on forever.  
  
But after a moment, she stiffens and pulls back from me. Some of the mothers are grumbling, shooting us dirty looks.  
  
'Come dear, let's walk. I think we've outstayed our welcome here.'  
  
She takes my mittened hand in hers. We head over to the flower fountain at the north end of the park, though the water is turned off now, and the flowers are mostly dead.  
  
'I'm sorry, I shouldn't have done that dear. There's a lot that we need to talk about first.'  
  
'I'm not sorry, Joyce. I loved you kissing me. I ... I'm gay,' I stammer.  
  
'I know, sweetie. So am I. But even if I weren't I don't think I could resist you. You are so adorable, and this picture is so precious. Thank you, my angel.'  
  
'Am I still your good girl then?'  
  
'Oh sweetie,' she laughs, 'you're absolutely the best girl ever! But if you say that one more time, I'm gonna break down and start kissing you in public again, and they may call the police on us. My house is a few blocks north of here, on Alma Street. Would you, um, come home with me?'  
  
I nod, grinning stupidly. She takes my hand again. Even through my mitten, I feel a current of joy coursing through my arm from the physical contact.  
  
* * *  
  
Her house is a cozy, nicely appointed half of a duplex, on a quiet street. Autumnal vestiges of a small vegetable garden can be seen in her front yard. Inside, her living room and kitchen are neat but lived-in. Books and papers are piled on the coffee table. The walls are lined with books, floor to ceiling. The kitchen smells of fresh baking. She immediately puts my picture up on her fridge door with magnets.  
  
'There, that's just temporary. I can't wait to get this framed: I'll put it up right there in the living room so I can enjoy looking at it every day. Now, I made some cinnamon buns for us, for after our walk. I was hoping you'd want to come over. Would you like one?'  
  
I nod.  
  
'Um, we're not in public anymore. Could you kiss me some more now, Joyce?'  
  
'Sweet girl, you have no idea how badly I want to kiss you. But we've got some things to talk through first. I've got a very strong, very good feeling about you, but we don't really know each other yet. For starters, I don't know if you'd like coffee with your bun.'  
  
'Um, no thanks. I don't like coffee.'  
  
'I thought not,' she says brightly, somehow happy about my answer. 'OK, I'm guessing you'd prefer ... tea, with lots of milk and sugar in it?'  
  
‘Yes please.’ How did she know?

She pours some boiling water in a proper teapot with loose tea and lets it brew, meanwhile I begin eating my bun, getting icing all over my fingers and lips. It's delicious. She smiles indulgently at the mess I'm making, and her smile warms me down to my toenails. She gives me my tea, with milk and sugar as promised. Then she pours herself some coffee from a small French press.  
  
'Sweetie, tell me about yourself.'  
  
I ought to be trying to impress her, to present myself as an amazing young woman who has all her stuff together. But I have no idea how to even do that; and anyway, something about Joyce makes me feel safe and accepted, so that pretence is unnecessary. So instead I open up to her, and it all comes spilling out. I tell her about my difficulties in high school, about my dead-end job, about my inability to make friends, about how disappointed my parents are in me, how disappointed I often am with myself. I tell her about being a weirdo loser. She holds my hand again, the non-sticky one, no mitten between us this time, and the thrill I feel is ten times stronger.  
  
'So, when I kissed you in the park just now, that was really the first time in your life you've been kissed?'  
  
I nod.  
  
'Listen to me, Chavah. You are not a weirdo. You are not a loser. There is nothing wrong with you and there never was. You are precious. You are perfect. You are lovable. And I want very much ... oh sweetie! Let me back up. I need to tell you some things about myself. I used to be married. I have a son about your age; he's studying mathematics at McGill now. About ten years ago, I admitted to myself my attraction to other women, and I divorced my husband. He lives out in Vancouver now. In the years that followed, I was in a couple of lesbian relationships, but something was still missing. I ... I wanted to take care of my partners, in a way they didn't want. They said I was too controlling, that I smothered them, even when I tried really hard to give them lots of space. That really hurt me. A friend suggested that maybe I should look for a lover who didn't feel such a strong need for independence, who was more submissive. So I cautiously checked out the BDSM scene in Toronto. You know what BDSM is, right?'

'Sort of', I blush. It's something that I came across in one of my prurient internet searches for lesbian erotica: the whips and handcuffs and stuff scared me. But if that's what Joyce likes, maybe ...  
  
'Well, in the BDSM community I met women who wanted me to hurt or humiliate them, and I quickly realized that I absolutely cannot do that. That's the very opposite of what I want. I need to be in charge of my lover, but in a loving way. I want a lover who'll let me take care of her. Like a mummy takes care of her little girl. I found out there’s a name for this orientation – it’s called a mummy-domme/little-girl relationship. MDLG for short. And sweetie,' her voice breaks into a sob, 'it sounds to me like that's exactly what you need too. I think you're a natural "little". You're bright, you're a gifted artist; you just need someone to shield you a bit from the harshness of the adult world. I want to be your Mummy, my angel.'  
  
My heart soars into the stratosphere. Then it suddenly stalls. 'So ... um, not a sexual relationship then?'  
  
'I'm certainly hoping for a sexual relationship, sweet girl. Some littles are at a fixed emotional age, too young for sex. But the way you responded to my kiss ... _wow,_ you're a grown-up woman all right! But from what you've told me, life sometimes gets overwhelming and you feel too little to handle it, right? That's called being in your "little space". When you're not in your little space, when you're feeling like a big girl, I very much hope that you'll want sexual intimacy with me. I know there's a substantial age gap between us -- I wasn't _looking_ for a younger woman: real age has nothing to do with my MDLG orientation. Well, maybe that’s not completely true. Your fresh young loveliness, well ... everything about you, Chavah darling, attract me powerfully. But, yeah, I worry that I'm too old for you, that you won't find me attractive or interesting. Well ... I've told you what I want, and what my fears are. I need to hear what you want, sweet girl.'  
  
I wipe the icing from my face and hand.  
  
'Joyce, this is all completely new to me, OK? I mean, that an AMAZING woman like you would want a relationship with me ... I'm worried once you get to know me better I'll turn out to be a disappointment to you, OK? But you're asking me what I want ... so ... _I want to be your good girl,_ more than anything on earth! I don't really know what-all that means yet: I just know that when you call me your good girl, it makes my heart melt ... and other parts of me melt too,' I blush. 'And right now I'm feeling like a pretty big girl, and I think you're absolutely the hottest thing on two legs.'

'Hot?' she giggles self-consciously. 'Sweetie, I'm a bit too old and overweight for "hot", I think. I'd settle for "not-bad-for-my-age-if-I-lost-a-few-pounds".'  
  
I shake my head, grinning. 'Nope. You're break-the-thermometer hot. You're not too old for me, you're perfect. Right now I really want you to kiss me some more ... Mummy.'  
  
'Oh baby girl, you're not making this easy for me ... I love hearing you call me "Mummy", and I love what you're saying ... but we still need to talk some more.'  
  
'Um, OK.'  
  
'This part is really important. If I'm going to be your Mummy, that means you're going to let me take care of you. You're going to trust me to do things for you and make choices for you, because ... well, because I love you and I want what's best for you. I'll always listen to you, and take your wishes into account, but I make the final decisions. Some mummies punish their littles if they're disobedient, like in a dom-sub relationship. I can't do that, not even in play. I'm asking you to respect me as your Mummy and accept my decisions, not push back against them, not test my limits. There's going to be some trial and error, we're both new to this ... but if that basic premise doesn't work for you ... I'm afraid this relationship won't work.' She bites her lip nervously. 'Can you accept that?'  
  
I nod, fighting back my tears. 'You ... you love me? Really?'  
  
'I do, sweet girl. We'll keep talking about our feelings as our relationship deepens and grows – as I hope it will – but right now, yes, I'm ready to say I love you. I've fallen for you pretty hard, in fact, and each second I'm with you it gets stronger and stronger. I wouldn't normally leap into emotional commitment this quickly. I mean, objectively, it seems kind of crazy, I know. But ... I just trust my heart on this. I trust _you._ And I'm hoping you're able to trust me.'  
  
I nod again.

She pauses, taking a deep breath.  
  
'So here's my first decision, Chavah. I want you to quit your job. Clerking a convenience store late at night by yourself is too dangerous. I won't allow it.'  
  
'OK. Um, but I wasn't supposed to be alone last night. My co-worker didn't show up. I'm not pushing back, Mummy,' I quickly add, 'I just wanted you to understand what happened.'  
  
'Good girl, for explaining the situation to me. But could you call your manager and tell them to find a substitute so you wouldn't be working alone?'  
  
'Not really. He'd just swear about Dwayne not showing and then tell me to handle things on my own.'  
  
'Right. So you're not going to do that anymore. I want you to call your boss right now and tell him you quit.'  
  
'OK, Mummy. Um, I think I have to give two weeks' notice, right?'  
  
'No you don't, sweetie. They can fire you at will, and you can resign at will. If you were going to look for another retail job and you needed a reference from your manager, then you might need to give notice. But you won't be doing that.'  
  
'Um, OK ... '  
  
Her face breaks into a triumphant grin. 'I forwarded those pictures of your butterflies to my friend Masha in the fine arts department at U of G. I knew she'd go apeshit over them, pardon my French, and she did. She wants to see more of your work, of course, and to meet you. Her department is going to bend over backward to get you in their program. And I'm going to be with you every step of the way to make sure you don't get overwhelmed like you did in high school. I'll take care of all your needs: material, emotional, sexual. You have a very bright future as a visual artist, unless Masha is completely mistaken. So, be a good girl for me now and and call your boss.'  
  
I get out my phone and dial Mr. Harder's number.

_'This is Don Harder --'_

'Mr. Harder, it's Chavah. I ...'

_'I can't get to the phone right now. Leave a message with your name and number.' BEEP._

'Mr. Harder, it's Chavah. I, um, I have to quit my job. Effective immediately. I ... um, I'm gonna study art ... '

I'm about to apologise for quitting so suddenly. But I'm not sorry, really. So I don't. If Seven-Eleven management cared about retaining workers, they'd treat us better and pay us better. OK, nothing more to say, is there?

'Well ... OK, g'bye,' I add, just so as not to be rude. I hang up.

Well, that's that. My future is in Joyce's ... _Mummy's_ hands now, and it feels ... liberating. Mummy's forcefulness kind of made my head spin a little, but ... there's something reassuring about it too. I'm safe in Mummy's hands. The thought of being completely _in Mummy’s hands_ is making me kind of hot and damp and tingly in a certain anatomical region.  
  
'Good girl!' she beams. 'I am so very proud of you. You are so _not-_ a-disappointment!' She moves closer to me on the couch. 'Now, sweetie ... I am going to kiss you till your hair turns curly.'  
  
Her kiss in the park made my lips tingle. Her kisses now set my whole body on fire. Her tongue invades my mouth and starts having sex with my tongue. She tastes of coffee but _yum!_ who knew coffee could be so delicious! Her warm, heavy breasts are pressing against mine as we embrace. She feels even softer and nicer than I had imagined. Her hair smells deliciously of citrus and flowers. This isn't kissing, this is _making out!_ At last she pulls away and we catch our breath.  
  
'My hair's already curly Mummy.'  
  
'I guess the kissing worked then,' she winks.

'Silly Mummy,' I giggle. 'Kiss me some more, Mummy?'  
  
'Hang on, sweetie. I'm gonna let my department chair know I can't make the faculty meeting. I won't tell him it's so I can stay home and make love to you all day.'  
  
She opens her laptop and sends off her email. Then she gets up and leads me back to her bedroom. My heart is pounding. I'm about to have SEX ... with a real woman ... the woman of my dreams. She sits on the bed and pats the spot next to her. I sit beside her.  
  
'Mummy?'  
  
'What is it, precious?'  
  
'I'm Jewish.'  
  
'Yeah, I kind of guessed that from your name.'

'But ... it's important to me. I, um, go to shul pretty regularly. I pray. I try to keep kosher, not ultra-strictly. I observe Shabbat, also not ultra-strictly.'  
  
'What's "shul"?'  
  
'It means a synagogue.'  
  
'And is there any conflict between your religious beliefs and accepting yourself as lesbian?'  
  
'Oh no, my shul is LGBT-welcoming. We're Reform. But ... is that OK with you, me being Jewish? Can that work ... in this kind of Mummy-girl relationship?'  
  
'Oh sweetie, I would never take that away from you. Of course you can keep being Jewish! I'm a lapsed Presbyterian myself, but I'd love to learn about your Judaism. I think it's wonderful that you have that.'  
  
'It's because of my Bubbe, my grandmother, I guess. We used to go to shul together. My parents and my sister aren't as religious. Bubbe died when I was in grade ten.'  
  
'You must miss her.'  
  
'I've kind of been lost without her, the last few years. Till I met you last night. I ... I'm in love with you, Mummy.'  
  
'My good girl,' she murmurs happily, and pulls me into another deep kiss that goes on and on.  
  
At last, Mummy gets up, unbuttons her blouse and sheds her skirt. I could come just from looking at her, just from being this close to her. Then her bra comes off.  
  
'Sweetie, you look like the cat ready to pounce on the canary,' she chuckles nervously.  
  
'Mummy, you are so HOT!'  
  
'C'mere, sweet girl.'  
  
I snuggle up in her arms, then kiss my way down to her heavy breasts. I take one in my mouth, savouring the taste and feel of her erect nipple against my eager tongue. I gently bite down.  
  
'Oh, Chavah, baby girl ... ungh, your mouth feels so good ... just like that, yes, oh ... just like that ... I'm, I'm gonna ... oh FUCK, baby girl, I'm COMING!' She frantically grabs my hand and shoves it between her thick thighs, clamping down hard, her panties wet against my fingers. I rub her fat pussy lips gently through her panties, as I switch to the other breast and keep sucking. She smells heavenly. 'Ahh, sweet girl, where did you learn ... ahh ... ohh, yeah, you're doing it ... you're doing it to me again, you're gonna make me ... oh, here it comes, baby girl, YESSS!'  
  
And without her even touching me, I come too, right along with her. I cling tightly to her heaving body, kissing her breasts, as we recover from the shared orgasm.  
  
'My God, that was ... fantastic! You made me come like a firecracker, twice! You ... you came too?! You've done this before, c'mon sweet girl, there's no WAY you're a virgin.'  
  
'I've done it to myself,' I blush. 'A lot. You're my first lover though, Mummy.'  
  
'I shudder to think how good you're going to be with a little experience: I might die from the pleasure,' she giggles. 'So ... my turn now. I want to see you naked, sweet girl.'  
  
I get up and pull off my jumper, my top, my tights. My breasts are small, so I generally don't wear a bra. I pull down my panties and climb back into bed.  
  
'You're perfect,' she whispers, taking me in her arms and kissing me.

'I adore every inch of you.' She begins kissing my breasts.

'Your nipples are like gumdrops,' she murmurs, licking them slowly, sucking on them, making me shiver. After some time of this, she kisses her way down to my tummy.

'Mummy wants to kiss her sweet girl's kitty now.'  
  
'Oh Mummy, yes!' I gasp, pulling my knees up to my chest, offering my very wet pussy to her. The very first time a woman goes down on me -- how wonderful that it's Mummy!  
  
She moves down to my crotch, kissing my mound, nuzzling into my pubic hair. Her tongue comes out to play along my inner thighs. Then _ahhh_! she's licking along my engorged pussy lips, her tongue plunges deep in my tunnel; she's fucking me with her tongue now, while her hands grip and knead my tushy. I'm whimpering with need, like a distressed puppy. Her lips encircle my sensitive clit and she draws it into her mouth ... and easily, joyfully, powerfully, loudly, I come again for her.  
  
'You taste so sweet,' she murmurs, snuggling up beside me. I nuzzle my face into her fantastic breasts, feeling her heart beating beneath my cheek.  
  
'Mummy?'  
  
'Yes sweet girl?'  
  
'In this mummy-little girl relationship -- is there, like, a special way you want me to act, to be your little girl?'

'Oh sweetie, no, I don't want you to act at all: just please be yourself. This relationship isn't a ... a role-playing game. This is real life.'

'OK Mummy. I just wasn't sure how this kind of relationship is supposed to work.'  
  
'I'm so glad you asked me. Such a good girl! Look, our MDLG relationship works however we want it to work, you and me; there’s no script we have to follow. So it's really important that you can ask me anything, and tell me whatever you're feeling; I always want to know, and I'll never be mad at you for asking or telling me anything -- I promise. And I'll do the same for you. The only groundrule is that you trust me to take care of you, as your Mummy. Because I love you. For real and for always.'  
  
'You're the best Mummy in the world!'  
  
'Mmm. And you're the sweetest, most delicious, most lovable good girl.'  
  
My tummy gurgles loudly.  
  
'Hmm, my sweet girl's getting hungry. Me too.' She gets up and puts on her robe. 'I'll make us some lunch. Keep me company in the kitchen, sweet girl?' she asks.  
  
I bounce happily out of bed, putting on my panties and my turtleneck top. It's warm enough in her house, so I leave my other clothes where they are.  
  
As I set the table, she briskly gets to work in the kitchen, making grilled cheese sandwiches and heating up some tomato soup, which is just about the best lunch ever invented. The soup isn't from a can, it's homemade, with real tomato bits in it. She makes herself a small salad as well, and gives me some carrot sticks.  
  
'Um, I don't really like raw carrots, Mummy.'  
  
'Sweet girl, carrots are good for you. What do you usually eat for lunch?'  
  
'Mostly energy bars. Or poptarts. I don't really know how to cook.'  
  
She shakes her head. 'It's a good thing I showed up in your life before you died of malnutrition.'  
  
'It's a very good thing you showed up, Mummy.' I happily snuggle into her arms.  
  
'So, Chavah, be a good girl for me now and eat your carrots.' She kisses me on the nose. 'Then you can have another cinnamon bun for dessert.'  
  
'OK Mummy.'  
  
* * *  
  
After lunch, I quickly say my _mincha_ prayer. We go back to the bedroom. She drops her robe, I pull off my top and panties.  
  
'Lie down on your tummy, sweet girl. Mummy wants to kiss your back.'  
  
I giggle, rolling over. 'OK, but why my back?'  
  
'Because I want to kiss and make love to every inch of you, sweet girl,' she growls possessively. 'There's a whole side of your body I haven't shown any love to yet.'  
  
I feel her hot lips all over my shoulders; she kisses her way down my spine.  
  
'I'm going to make love to you again now, darling. If I start to do anything you're uncomfortable with, you can say "red" and I'll stop, or "yellow" and I'll slow down or pause ... or green and I'll keep going.'  
  
'Like a traffic light?'  
  
'Exactly, smart girl.' She resumes kissing. 'So what colour is the traffic light right now?'  
  
'Green, Mummy!'  
  
'Good girl. And if you ever start to feel overwhelmed and go into your little space, you can tell me how old you feel. If you tell me an age less than eighteen, I'll stop all sexual activity and wait till you're feeling like a big girl again.'  
  
'Right now I'm feeling about a hundred, Mummy!'  
  
She chuckles and begins kissing lower down.  
  
'You have such a perfect arse, sweet girl. I adore it!' She begins kissing my tushy cheeks hungrily, nipping at them gently with her teeth, making me giggle and squeal. Then she spreads them apart. I feel her hot breath on my exposed anus.  
  
'Yellow!'  
  
'Good girl! You want me to pause?'  
  
'It's just, um ... you really want to, um, to kiss me ... in _there_?'  
  
'I do, sweet girl ... and lick you and feast on you. I said I want to make love to every inch of you.'  
  
'I'm not, um ... yucky, back there?'  
  
'Sweet girl, you're perfectly clean. You smell nice like soap. And your kitty smells excited, which is driving me crazy. Does this make you uncomfortable? We can stop and do something else. Just tell me "red".'  
  
Mummy wants this. I'm Mummy's good girl. I want it too.  
  
'Green, Mummy.'  
  
 _Aaaah_! I feel her warm lips right on my anus, kissing it again and again. Her tongue sweeps over and around it, hungrily tasting me, while her fingers gently slipslide over my wet clitty. I feel so ... completely, utterly _loved_ by her. I belong to her now, all of me – even _there_. For real and for always. Her hands pull my tushy cheeks farther apart, and then ... her tongue suddenly spears deep into my anus ... and to my amazement, I come, whimpering into the pillow.  
  
At last she withdraws her face from my tushy.  
  
'You're delectable, Chavah. How was that for you?'  
  
I clench my anus, feeling it tingle with warm aftershocks of pleasure. I roll over onto my back again. 'That was ... amazing. Wow. This whole sex-with-another-person-thing is full of surprises.'  
  
She chuckles. 'Such a sweet girl. And so yummy. Mummy's going to want to do that with you quite a bit.'  
  
'OK Mummy,' I grin back, happy, arms crossed behind my head, my gumdrop nipples proudly upthrust.  
  
She gets up and goes to her night stand. I'm not sure exactly when her panties came off, but she's completely naked now: I admire her bare tushy. Well, that’s an understatement – I fall helplessly in love with it. It's immense, breathtaking, magnificent. I want to shower it with kisses and bury my face in it. I wonder if I'll have the courage to try licking her back there the way she just did for me. She turns slightly and I catch sight of the thick pelt of auburn hair covering her plump mound. I fall helplessly in love with that too. She glances at me and chuckles.  
  
'You've got that look again, sweetie, like a hungry cat about to pounce on me. I'm not used to this kind of admiration. It's ... kind of thrilling.'  
  
'I'm not used to this either, making love with the hottest Mummy in the universe.'  
  
'Why thank you, sweet girl. You're pretty hot yourself. I'm gonna pounce on you in a minute.'

‘Promise?’

She chuckles again, reaching into the drawer and pulling out a large lavender-coloured plastic wall hook, and a tube of glue. Why does she have a ... oh, wait ... that's not a wall hook. I recognize it now from one of my internet searches: it's a ... a whatchamacallit ... a _feeldoe_ , a strapless dildo for lesbian sex. The active partner wears the bulb end in her vagina, and penetrates the receiving partner with the longer end. The tube is lubricant, I guess.  
  
'Sweet girl, I want to make love to you with this. This is a big step. Your virginity is a sacred gift, that you can only give once, to one very lucky person, and I’m hoping you find me worthy to be that person, to receive that gift. Will you trust me to take your virginity gently, to cherish you, to love you? Will you give yourself to me, sweet girl? I can wait, if you're not ready. What colour is the traffic light, sweet girl?'  
  
'Green Mummy! I want to be all yours.'  
  
'Thank you, sweet girl. Mummy is so in love with you.'  
  
She applies a dab of lube to the bulb end and puts it inside herself. Then she advances to the bed, the penis end jutting forth from her hairy split fig. She slathers more lube on the protruding shaft, though frankly I'm already aroused and wet enough to mate with a rhinoceros (if the rhinoceros was Mummy).  
  
I lie back and draw my knees up again. She settles over me, and guides the tip of the feeldoe to my glistening pussy lips. She rubs it against my clitty and I gasp. I gaze up into her hazel eyes as she enters me.  
  
'I love you so much, my sweet girl, my Chavah.'  
  
'Go ahead Mummy, take me. I love you too, I'm your good girl.'  
  
As she kisses me, she lets the weight of her body sink down on me. The feeldoe presses deeper into me. There's a sharp twinge of pain inside me, and suddenly she's in me all the way.  
  
'That's it, baby girl. Are you OK? It didn't hurt too badly?'  
  
'It's OK Mummy. I'm yours now.'  
  
She begins slowly withdrawing it, then thrusting it back in. The pain is rapidly fading, and the pleasure is starting to mount. I feel so deliciously full down there, my vaginal walls are clenching around the shaft as it moves inside me. She reaches down between us to adjust something, and to my surprise I feel a sudden throbbing, buzzing sensation.  
  
'What is that, Mummy?'  
  
'I switched on the vibrator, sweetie. How is it?'  
  
'Um. Weird. I've never ... oh! ... that's ... ungh, yeah, oh FUCK me Mummy!'  
  
She does. Her pendulous breasts flop around and slap into my face as she pistons into me, and I capture one of them in my mouth and suck on it. My own hips are driving up to meet her wonderful buzzing thrusts, as over and over I moan 'Don't stop!' -- but with her breast filling my mouth it comes out 'Mome mop!' She drives into me harder and harder, faster and faster: I hadn't realized her physical strength.  
  
I release her breast from my mouth. 'Unnghh, coming now ... you come too Mummy, come with me ... please!'  
  
'Yes, sweet baby girl, gonna come with you ... gonna ... oh UNGHHHH!'  
  
She collapses on top of me, swaddling me with the bulk of her fleshy body, panting as she catches her breath. She reaches down between us and switches off the vibrator. She starts to pull out, but I grab her wide hips and keep her in place.  
  
'Stay inside me Mummy, please. I want to hold you.'  
  
We kiss for a long time. I want her to feel how much I love her. Eventually I let her pull out and climb off me. She puts on her robe. I sit up. There's a bit of a bloody wet spot on the sheet beneath me, marking my lost virginity.  
  
'Oops. Sorry Mummy, I hope that doesn't stain.'  
  
'Sweet girl, I've got other clean sheets. I'm going to put this one aside as a keepsake now, a special treasure, to remind me that you're really mine now.'  
  
'I'm your good girl?'  
  
'Yes, precious, you are. For real and for always.'  
  
She changes the sheet. We shower together. We go back to bed and rest for a while in each others' arms. My pussy feels a nice kind of sore. The rest of me feels ... euphoric. After a while I start feeling frisky, in a big-girl way. There’s that beautiful shaggy auburn muff between her legs that I haven’t explored yet. I want to enjoy it, and I tell her so. Grinning happily, she spreads her thighs for me. I enjoy burying my nose in her pubic hair. My lips and tongue fall in love with the earthy, tangy taste and creamy texture of her pussy, the pussy of a real full-grown woman, for the very first time -- to be repeated many many times in the years to come, I hope. She comes for me. Her pussy belongs to me now, I tell her, and I belong completely to her.

Now I'm feeling very frisky: I ask her to turn over, and I kiss her magnificent tushy and reverently lick between her cheeks the way she did for me. I love the feeling of her huge, soft warm bum cheeks enveloping my face as I eat her back there. I love the sensation and the taste of her muscular anus against my eager tongue.  
  
'Put your fingers in my kitty, sweet girl,' she gasps.  
  
I do. Almost immediately, she comes again.  
  
We snuggle together again under the covers. Bliss. She smells so good. We doze off together.  
  
* * *  
  
A few hours later, Mummy starts to stir. She gets up, puts on her robe again and goes to check her email.  
  
'Masha is pestering me about meeting you, Chavah. I told her Friday morning at ten. Do you have a portfolio you can show her?'  
  
'One of those big leather briefcase things? No ... '  
  
'No, I just mean a collection of your artwork.'  
  
'Oh, I've got a pile of my colouring ... my artwork, in my apartment.'  
  
'I'd very much like to see your apartment this evening, sweet girl. Tomorrow while I'm teaching, you can sort through your pile and decide what to include in your portfolio. You can make some more, if you're feeling inspired.’ She looks in my eyes. ‘How old do you feel now, sweet girl?'  
  
I pause and think. 'Ten, Mummy. I'm a little scared about meeting Masha.'  
  
'Good girl! I'm so proud of you, for telling me how you feel, and for using your age number. Remember, I'll be with you at the meeting, right beside you. Masha is an old friend. I've told her a little about you. She understands that you can be a bit ... fragile, at times. She's willing to work with us, to bend university rules if necessary. You're not the first sensitive artist her department has had to deal with.'  
  
'Does she know about our ...' I struggle to remember the right letters, 'our MDLG relationship?'  
  
'She knows I'm head-over-heels for you. But no, she doesn't know any details about our relationship. I don't see any reason she would need to.'  
  
'So, I shouldn't call you "Mummy" in front of her?'  
  
'That's a very good question, smart girl. How do you feel about that?'  
  
'It feels kind of ... _private_. Like you said, other people don't need to know about the MDLG thing between us. How about I just call you Joyce in public, and tell them you're my girlfriend.'  
  
'That's fine with me, sweetie. I'm proud to be your Mummy, and I'm proud to be your girlfriend, your lover, your partner, whatever word you want to use. As long as we're out about our relationship, no one else has to know the private details. So ... are you feeling a bit bigger now?'  
  
I nod.  
  
'Good girl. Let's get dressed.'  
  
As we return to the living room, she grabs a book from the coffee table and hands it to me.  
  
'Here, remember I mentioned Maud Lewis? I meant to show you this earlier. Look through this and tell me what you think of her.'  
  
I slowly go through the art book, looking at the pictures. I'm flabbergasted, that drawings like this count as serious 'art' -- childish drawings so similar to mine. But so completely different. She used different colours, I like mine better. She used paint on canvas or wood, I use felt markers on paper. But as I look over her houses, her birds, her flowers, all sorts of ideas start occurring to me. My God, this woman knew exactly what she was doing! Her pictures _work_ in ways I'm not entirely sure I could match, but I'm getting ideas for new drawings.  
  
I put the book down.  
  
'Wow!' is all I can say. 'I need to study these ... like, a lot. It's exciting, but kind of overwhelming to take it all in. I had no idea art could be like this.'  
  
'That's what the fine arts program is all about, sweetie. You'll study other artists, you'll learn new techniques, new media; you'll learn to develop your own style. Masha and other instructors will help you. And I'll be at your side, loving you and supporting you in every way the whole time. Does that sound good?'  
  
I nod, still a bit shaken up by the audaciousness of Maud Lewis. Then another question occurs to me.  
  
'You're, um, going to support me financially? I won't work at all? I don't know if I'm comfortable with that, Mummy.'  
  
She bites her lip. 'Sweetie, I want to take care of you.'  
  
'I'm going to be a "kept" woman?'  
  
She rolls her eyes. 'Where did you learn that expression, sweet girl? I've never seen it outside of Victorian novels.'

'I think I read it in _Portrait of a Lady._ '

'Ah, precisely, good old Henry James. Well, Chavah, for the next few years you're going to be working full time on your degree. That's your job as far as I'm concerned. At some point, darling, your artwork will start to sell. The art market is unpredictable, but if you're as talented as Masha and I think you are, you may be bringing in way more money than my professor's salary ... and then I'll be _your_ kept woman,' she chuckles. 'But until then, yes, I'm going to support you. And if you never sell a single work, I'm still going to support you. I'm your Mummy; that part's not negotiable. I mean, I can't offer you lavish riches; I live pretty frugally. I am, after all, a Scot,' she laughs. 'But we'll be comfortable, sweet girl. I'll make sure you have everything you need.'  
  
'Wow ... OK Mummy. Thank you.'  
  
I snuggle up in her arms.  
  
'Thank you for telling me how you feel. Oh, Chavah, I'm feeling really good about us ... REALLY good ... that our relationship is starting off on a very good basis. You’re really letting me take care of you. This is what I've been wanting for years and years. You are my good girl. I ... I've never been this happy before, Chavah, darling. It almost scares me.'  
  
'Scares you how, Mummy?'  
  
'That I could screw this up somehow and you'll leave me.'  
  
I hug her tightly.  
  
'You _can't_ screw this up, Mummy. I'm yours now, no matter what. You have the bedsheet that proves it.'  
  
She makes us hamburgers for dinner, and something she calls 'three-bean salad'. It's not real salad, for which I'm grateful. It looks yucky, but since Mummy made it, I try it and it's actually pretty good. A little bit sweet, a little bit tangy. I finish my portion and ask for a little more. She beams this big happy grin at me, and I grin back. She offers me ice cream for dessert, and I explain to her that keeping kosher includes not eating dairy after meat. We have cut-up apples with peanut butter for dessert instead.  
  
* * *  
  
After dinner Mummy drives us over to my apartment. As she observes the outside of my building, her face starts to show worry. Then I let her inside my apartment.  
  
'Sorry, it's kind of messy.'  
  
'I'm not concerned about that, sweetie. Messiness is to be expected when an adorable little one like you doesn’t have anyone to take care of her. I'm more worried about that mould on the walls.'  
  
'Yeah, the landlord said he'd clean that up when I moved in, but he never did. I just try to keep away from that part of the room.'  
  
She goes into the kitchen and observes the general absence of fresh food, or cooking implements. She sees the sagging, crumbling ceiling in the bathroom.  
  
'This is worse than I feared. Sweet girl, here's my next decision: you're not going to live here any more. That mould on the walls looks toxic, the lock on the front door of the building is busted, there's no light in the hallways, the bathroom is about to cave in. Baby, this place is just not safe. In an ideal world we'd take things more slowly, but this is an emergency situation. I'd like you to move in with me, immediately. If you're not ready for that step yet, I'll put you up in a hotel till we can find you another apartment. But I will not allow you to stay in this dump another night.'  
  
I snuggle into her arms again.  
  
'OK Mummy. I don't want to go to a hotel room. I'm ready. I want to live with you. I’d _love_ to live with you. Thank you.'

'Do you have a suitcase, Chavah?'  
  
I shake my head.  
  
She pulls a large plastic bag out of her purse.  
  
'Put all your clothes in here. And who's this fine fellow?' She's looking at the large warthog stuffy on my bed.  
  
'That's Pumbaa, Mummy.'  
  
'Of course. _They call me MISTER Pig!_ Does Pumbaa want to come with us?'  
  
I nod happily.  
  
'OK, Mister Pig, into the bag with you then. Your toothbrush too, sweet girl. And where's your artwork?'  
  
'Here,' I hand her the stack of papers. She resists the impulse to look through them, and slides them carefully into her large purse.  
  
'This furniture can all go to Habitat for Humanity, unless there's something here you're really attached to; we don't need any of it in my house. _Our_ house now. You can have the basement as your art studio. I'll keep kosher with you; I never liked pork much anyway. Do you have a copy of the lease for this dump?'  
  
I shake my head. 'My dad probably does.'  
  
'OK, give your parents a call when we get home. You'll need to tell them about some of the changes in your life. Have you come out to them?'  
  
'Kind of. I’ve been very clear about not being interested in boys, when my mum tried to play matchmaker. I think they’ve figured it out.'  
  
'OK. Well, I'd very much like to meet them soon. At Christmas, you'll meet my son. Now let's get out of here before this mould makes us sick or a rapist breaks in.'  
  
* * *  
  
We're back at Mummy's house now. Our house, she reminds me.  
  
I call my parents' landline, on speaker so Mummy can hear.  
  
'Dad?'  
  
'What is is Chavah? Make it quick.'  
  
'I've moved out of my apartment. I can give you my new address --'  
  
'You ... wait a minute, you WHAT?'  
  
'I'm moving in with a friend. My new girlfriend, actually. Her name is Joyce.'  
  
'Chavah, hang on just a goddamn minute here! You are not making a change like that without discussing it with your mum and me first. First of all, you don't have a girlfriend. What, all of a sudden you think you're a lesbian now?'  
  
'Um, I am, dad. Not all of a sudden. And I do have a girlfriend. We met just, um, recently, but I really love her, and she wants me to live with her. I need you to give me the landlord's address, so I can give him notice that I'm terminating the tenancy.'  
  
'"Terminating the tenancy", listen to you with the legal phrases, what's gotten into you? Chavah, look, I don't know if this Joyce person is real or you've made her up in your head, but I doubt --'  
  
'Dr Goldblatt, this is Joyce Urquhart: your daughter has us on speakerphone and I'm standing right beside her. I assure you, I'm quite real. The situation is just as Chavah said. And I would add, thank you for raising such a wonderful, talented daughter. I'm crazy about her. I look forward to meeting you and your wife soon.'  
  
There's no response from the other end.  
  
'Dad? Are you still there?'  
  
'Um, Joyce ... look, I don't know what you mean by "talented". You understand that my daughter Chavah has ... problems, right?'  
  
'No, Dr Goldblatt, I don't understand that at all. I can see that Chavah has a unique personality, a delightful personality. I doubt she has any problems that she can't get through with some loving support from me. And she's a very talented artist, which you seem to be unaware of. I’m helping her get into the fine arts program at University of Guelph.'  
  
'Um, Joyce, forgive me, you sound ... can I ask, how old are you?'  
  
'I'm forty-three, Dr Goldblatt. And Chavah is twenty. We're both consenting adults. And I’m gainfully employed.'  
  
Another long silence on the other end.  
  
'Uh, look, this is gonna sound ruder than I mean it, Joyce, but ... for fuck sake, you're a year older than Chavah's mother!'  
  
'Dad, how DARE you!' I want to hang up on him, but Joyce takes the phone from me.  
  
'Dr Goldblatt, the age difference between Chavah and me is precisely that: it's _between Chavah and me_. If she's OK with it -- and she is, for which I thank my lucky stars -- then that's all that matters. Dr Goldblatt, I am trying _extremely_ hard not to judge your parenting style here. It seems you have very little idea of what's going on in your daughter's life or who she even is. She needs your love and support, not this criticism and keeping her at arm’s length --'  
  
I hear my mother's voice in the background. She and my father are arguing.  
  
'Um, mum, are you there?'  
  
'Hi Chavah. Hi Joyce, I'm Joanne Goldblatt, Chavah's mother. I gather my _putz_ of a husband just said something extremely offensive.'  
  
My dad comes back on, with an entirely different tone of voice. 'Chavah, listen, your mother's right. You're right. I'm sorry. I was way out of line. Tell Joyce I apologize.'  
  
'She can hear you, dad.'  
  
'Apology accepted, Dr Goldblatt and Dr Goldblatt,' Mummy says.  
  
'Please call me Aaron, Joyce. I'm sorry, both of you. This has been a lot for your mother and me to take in. It's been hard to hear, frankly. You're right, I should be a more supportive parent, we both should. We’ve been worried about Chavah for so long. We’ve wanted to protect her, but we knew she had to grow up and find her own way in the world. We didn’t always strike the right balance, I guess. You sound like a responsible person, Joyce, and you sound like you genuinely care for Chavah. My wife is right: maybe you'll be good for her.'  
  
'She is, dad!' I shout. 'And I'm gonna be good for her too.'  
  
'So, yes, we'd like to meet you. And we want to hear about this art school business, which catches us a little off-guard, to be honest. Joanne and I are on call at the hospital the next three nights. So ... say Sunday night, we'll take you out to dinner together?'  
  
'That would be lovely, Aaron and Joanne,' Joyce says. 'But how about you come over to our place for dinner instead, so you can see where your daughter lives now? 873-B Alma Street. I look forward to meeting you. In the meantime, could you please find that slumlord's address and text it to Chavah?'  
  
* * *  
  
After we hang up, I get ready for bed and say my _ma'ariv_ prayer, adding special thanks to Adonai for Mummy.  
  
She is waiting for me in bed, naked. Pumbaa is splayed out at the foot of the bed, looking altogether too pleased with himself. I start to undress.  
  
'What are you grinning about, sweet girl?'  
  
'I'm thinking Pumbaa better not be getting any lustful ideas about you: you're _my_ Mummy!'  
  
'And are you getting any lustful ideas, sweet girl? I sure am!'  
  
'Not about Pumbaa, I hope.' I pull down my panties.  
  
'Nope, definitely not about Pumbaa,' she chuckles, licking her lips, pulling back the sheet.  
  
She's wearing the feeldoe already. I’m wet for her.  
  
I jump into bed, climbing onto Mummy, straddling her, kissing her, letting the feeldoe enter me, sinking down on it. She reaches between us to turn on the vibrator.  
  
'Love you, Mummy,' I moan.  
  
'Love you too, sweet girl.'

* * *

  
  


A couple of days ago, my whole life turned upside-down, all in one day, Wednesday the 16th of Tishrei 5780, the middle of Sukkot. Actually, it's more like my whole life had been upside-down, and it suddenly came rightway-up. I suddenly found myself in a relationship with Joyce Urquhart, the smartest, sweetest, sexiest, cuddliest woman in the universe, my wonderful Mummy. Somehow she fell in love, nearly at first sight, with weirdo me -- _me?!_ \-- and I fell in love right back at her. All my myriad weirdo qualities and embarrassing inadequacies turn out to be things that she adores and wants me to be proud of. She took charge of my life, getting me out of my dead-end convenience store job and into a fine arts degree program. She rescued me from my rat-hole apartment, and now I'm living with her in her cozy duplex, with my own studio space in the basement. She even got my parents to apologize for treating me like the black sheep of the family all these years. And then there's the mind-blowing, heart-melting sex, available on demand -- her demand or mine it doesn't much matter which -- I feel like the proverbial kid turned loose in the candy store. _I’m Mummy’s good girl.  
_  
* * *  
  
Well, the arts program part isn't a done deal yet. When Mummy first presented the idea to me, I was a bit distracted by the immediate prospect of SEX with this gorgeous, fantastic woman; I didn't really have time to ponder what this new direction for my life would mean. If it works out, I'll be able to give all my time to my colou -- my _art_ ... and to pleasing Mummy. That still sounds too good to be true; Mummy herself seems too good to be true, but she's real all right: the well-used state of my pussy confirms it. Anyway, Mummy's friend Dr Masha Olenkova is coming over this morning to look at my drawings. I've got a lot riding on what she thinks of them -- though she has seen a few of them already. She might look at the rest of my stuff and say sorry, no talent here after all. But even if that happens, even if the whole art career idea goes up in smoke, I know Mummy will still love me and want to take care of me. She told me so last night, as she held me in her arms.  
  
When Masha arrives at _our house_ (I'm still excited to call it that), I'm a little intimidated at first by her get-up -- a mint-green felt cape, big dangly earrings, mint-green horn-rim glasses -- I guess this is what artsy people wear. Mummy bustles around the kitchen, making tea, serving slices of the strudel she baked for us.  
  
'So this is Chavah, our prodigy', Masha smiles. She kisses me on both cheeks, European-style. Masha has a mild Russian accent, tinged with British English; her voice is low and reassuring. Maybe Mummy warned her not to come on too strong, or maybe Masha herself has a kind of maternal energy that puts me at ease. It helps that Mummy is sitting right beside me, holding my hand. Masha begins to look through my collection of drawings. I had arranged them in chronological order, but she rearranges them by theme: butterflies, cats, flowers. She smiles.  
  
'Your colours are exciting. There's a lot of raw power here, yes, and a good eye. Your challenge will be in developing nuance. Your pictures scream, my dear; sometimes it's only necessary to whisper. This one,' she holds up one of my recent butterfly pictures, 'is heading in the right direction. The juxtaposition of colours works perfectly with the design, it doesn't go overboard.'  
  
I nod. That is the butterfly picture that I am most proud of. It feels good to hear Masha confirm my own judgement. In the last couple of days, I've churned out six more pictures of Mummy, three of them nudes (at Mummy's request). Masha now turns to these.  
  
'Ah! Now these ... these are not screams, nor are they whispers. These, my dear, are poetry. Congratulations. This is exactly what I meant by nuance. You have great power, and you have sensitivity too. These nudes combine a kind of innocent naiveté with a powerful erotic awareness.'  
  
Yup, I think, that's me to a T: naive and erotically obsessed with Mummy.  
  
'I told you Masha! Isn't she amazing?' Mummy _kvells_ , squeezing my hand excitedly.  
  
This feeling of having someone be actually _proud_ of me is still so new to me -- it feels so freaking good -- if Masha weren't here, I could totally come just from the way Mummy is squeezing my hand, just from the look of love in her eyes. As soon as Masha leaves, I'm gonna need some serious love-making time with Mummy.

'Yes, all the ingredients are there. Congratulations. Chavah my dear, you have something to say, and you know how to say it. You just need to become literate in the thousands of years of art that has preceded you, so that your work becomes an intelligent contribution to that long conversation. It's going to be a pleasure teaching you.'

Masha brought along paperwork, already filled-out, for me to sign. She asks me first if I'm sure I don't want to consider applying to more prestigious art schools, Parsons, Pratt, or the Chicago Institute. But that would mean moving away from Mummy, which is out of the question. The term has already started: we debate whether I should join the classes mid-semester, but Mummy favours waiting till January, so I have some time to get my confidence up before tossing me in among the other students. In the meantime, I'm to practise some techniques that Masha explains to me, and she promises to come over once a week to give me feedback and bring me books to read.  
  
* * *  
  
That evening, Mummy comes to shul with me. After the service, as we're eating apples and honey left over from Rosh Hashanah, she engages Rabbi Ruth with a barrage of history-of-Judaism questions. Well, Mummy _is_ a historian. The Rabbi seems delighted to meet such an astute questioner. She tells Mummy about her Wednesday-night Judaism classes for interfaith couples, and before I know it, Mummy has signed us up, and written a membership cheque as well. For purposes of Temple Sha'arei Shalom, Mummy and I are now officially a couple!  
  
Mummy comes away all excited about expanding her research on seventeenth century religious wars beyond the Catholic-Protestant conflicts, addressing the Chmielnicki massacre of Polish Jews and its aftermath, considering its connection to the general religious upheaval in Europe at the time, and the pattern that it set for subsequent European antisemitism. Ninety percent of what she's talking about goes over my head, but she's clearly firing on all eight academic cylinders, and I'm pleased.  
  
* * *  
  
For our Sunday-night dinner with my parents, Mummy makes baked trout with little potatoes and carrots, and a home-made cheesecake for dessert, having checked with me on rules of kashrut. (That's for my benefit; my dad and mum don't keep kosher.) My parents, having gotten over the age-gap relationship issue pretty quickly, relate easily to Mummy as a peer. The Lagavulin whisky Mummy serves after dinner seems to help. I don't partake myself. (Alcoholic drinks taste yucky to me. I never have more than a sip of wine for _kiddush_.) My dad in particular turns on the charm, which I've only seen glimpses of before. They're clearly impressed with Mummy’s academic credentials, asking about the scholarly books she has published. By the end of the evening, she and my mum are gabbing away like a pair of yentas, reminiscing about music from the nineties.  
  
The weirdest thing is ... my parents seem to be impressed with _me_ now, asking to see my drawings (we've hidden the nudes), and comparing them favourably to the Maud Lewis paintings that Mummy shows them. I know my parents know _bubkes_ about art, but they know that other people are taking my stuff seriously, and they don't want to seem like Philistines. And they actually seem relieved to hear that I'm not working at the Seven-Eleven any more, which is ironic, because they were the ones that insisted I had to take the job after high school.  
  
I don't expect my dad and mum to suddenly turn into different people. They've always been workaholics, without much time or energy to spare for my sister or me. But it's nice that I'm finally garnering some positive attention from them, and that they approve of my new life with Mummy. They offer to pay my rent, which Mummy politely declines. They then offer to cover my tuition and fees -- it actually doesn't come to much, with the scholarship Masha got me. Mummy, sensing their need to make amends to me, agrees. They intuit that Mummy is the one making decisions for me; they don't comment on this; they just seem to accept it.  
  
* * *  
  
I heard somewhere that professors are supposed to be absent-minded. Whoever came up with that one never met Professor Joyce Urquhart. Mummy believes that thorough organization is the solution to most of life's problems. As we celebrate our one-week anniversary, the list-making starts. She asks me to make a list of foods that I like, foods I don't like. She asks for lists of my favourite movies and music. In the days that follow, she takes inventory of my clothes and makes a list of items I need, including a warmer winter coat and boots. Then she takes me out and buys them all for me. Taking care of me like this makes Mummy happier than a pig in shit, she tells me, pardon her French.  
  
She also asks for a list of my favourite sexual practices. That's easy: anything that Mummy likes I like too. I've particularly come to enjoy 'rimming' with Mummy (tushy kissing and licking), both as receiver and giver. I'm not just a 'little'. I'm also, it turns out, intensely submissive: nothing gets me hotter and happier than the prospect of pleasing her, in bed or out of bed. (My parents would be quite surprised to hear me describe myself as submissive. They used to pile demands and expectations on me, and I'd fail at all of them. Their demands just drove me into my little space -- I can see that now -- where I couldn't accomplish anything. They thought I was being defiantly stubborn.)

Mummy makes lists for me of her household rules and chores. I'm a little worried about having to remember all of them -- I myself am _completely_ absent-minded. But Mummy is mainly interested in my willingness to correct my behaviour once she reminds me, and she's OK with reminding me repeatedly if need be. Of course I'm willing to do anything Mummy asks of me -- my primary goal in life now, aside from my colouri -- my _art_ \-- is to be her good girl. None of the rules and chores are beyond my capacity -- when I remember. And I will try hard to remember, I resolve, if doing them pleases her.

It helps that Mummy's rules are never arbitrary. If she's got a rule, there's a good reason for it, usually having to do with my own safety and well-being. It's not about her asserting her dominance over me. Some mummies, I learn, deliberately provoke their littles to disobedience with arbitrary commands so that they can enjoy punishing them. That doesn't sound very loving to me, even if the little craves the punishment.

I don't just love her, I don't just want sex with her -- as I get to know her better, I come to admire and respect her deeply as well. I learn that most of the vegetables and fruit we've been eating come from her own little front-yard garden. On top of everything else she does, she's the faculty sponsor for the campus Extinction Rebellion chapter, working to save the planet. Mummy is a good person, a Righteous Gentile; she makes the world a better place by being in it. Of course I want to obey her rules. I don't crave punishment, I crave pleasing her in every way that I can.  
  
* * *  
  
She also has a list of rules for how we relate to each other. _Gulp_. It's after dinner. Mummy's in her office, working away on her laptop, with a half dozen books lying open in front of her on her desk. I don't like to interrupt her work, but one of her rules is that we talk about stuff like this. She looks up at me as I come in, with a big happy grin that warms my heart. She sees I've got the list in my hand.  
  
'What is it, sweet girl?'  
  
'It's about the "no lying" rule. Mummy, I really want to say yes to all your rules.' I take a deep breath. 'But ... when I'm feeling overwhelmed -- really "little" -- if I'm, um, confronted about something I'm afraid to admit to, my first impulse is to deny it. It's kind of a reflex for me. I'm scared I'll do that some time, even though I don't want to, and then you'll think I don't care about being honest with you, that you can't trust me, even if I admit to the truth later. You might decide I'm not your good girl anymore ... that I'm a _bad_ girl.' I break down and start sniffling. 'And you won't want to be my Mummy anymore.'  
  
She takes me onto her lap and kisses me.  
  
'You remember what you said to me that first night, that I _can't_ screw this up? That goes for you too, eh. I'm your Mummy now, sweet girl, no matter what, _and I’ve got the bedsheet to prove it_. The rules are just tools to help us be clear with each other about our wants and expectations; they're not "red lines" to be crossed at your peril. Even if you did something that made me really upset, you would still be my good girl. I would explain to you why I was upset, and we would work out a solution. I'm never going to just decide to stop being your Mummy. Get straight on that.'

I'm smiling now as I sniff back my tears. My heart is overflowing with gratitude for this amazing woman.

'OK. Thank you. Although,' I smirk, 'you hardly make we want to get "straight", Mummy.'  
  
'Ooh, very clever, little miss clever-pants. I walked right into that one, didn't I? But seriously, about the "no lying" rule, your telling me about that now shows me you do care about honesty, and that I _can_ trust you. Thank you. You are such a good girl, Chavah, and I'm so delighted with everything about you. We'll just tweak the rule a little: you'll tell me the truth about any lies as soon as you come out of your little space and we have an opportunity to talk about it. Meanwhile I'll know to take with a grain of salt what you tell me when you're in your little space. I can certainly live with that.'  
  
'OK Mummy.'  
  
'Do _you_ have any rules you want to add to the list, sweetie?'  
  
'Lots of sex and cuddling?'  
  
'Sweet girl, that's a wish, not a rule,' she laughs, 'a wish I very much share. You can always ask for sex and cuddling from me, and I'll ask for it too. Do we need to make a rule around that?'  
  
I shake my head.  
  
'So, remember, none of my lists or rules is set in stone. We can always add to them or change them if they don't seem to be working. Got it?'  
  
'Mm-hmm. Can I ask for some sex and cuddling right now Mummy? I've been wanting all evening ... to, um ...' I rest my head on her magnificent bosom and nuzzle into it. I can feel her nipple harden against my cheek through her blouse.  
  
'My baby girl needs some titty-time with Mummy?' she asks huskily.  
  
'Yes Mummy, titty-time, please please please!'  
  
'Oh sweet girl! I just need a few minutes to finish up my lectures for tomorrow. No ... you know what, I can finish them up in the morning. C'mon.'  
  
She leads me out to the living room couch, her fingers swiftly unbuttoning her blouse, impatiently pulling it open. I lie down with my head in her lap. She unclasps her bra, letting her heavy breasts spill down into my face. Her nipples are already erect; her large, pale areolae are all rubbery-bumpy. I take one into my mouth and gratefully suck, while I cup the other one in my palm. Mummy smells so good, the nipple in my mouth tastes and feels so good beneath my tongue. She runs her fingers through my frizzy hair, cradling my head as I suck on her. 'Oh sweet girl,' she murmurs contentedly, 'I love the way you do that.' Happy moaning noises escape through my nose.  
  
This continues for several minutes. 'My other titty is getting jealous,' she eventually says, so I switch from right to left, giving it equal time, equal devotion. Mummy hums 'I See the Moon' to me as I suck. A feeling of deep connection to Mummy fills my heart.  
  
But the intermittent catches in her breathing, and the subtle shifting of her lap beneath my head, tell me that Mummy is getting aroused by what I'm doing, and that gets me aroused too. Her hand has been stroking my flank as I nurse on her. I shift my position slightly, spreading my knees, inviting her touch, and she reaches up beneath my skirt, caressing my inner thighs, brushing her fingers over the gusset of my panties.  
  
'You're wet, sweet girl,' she chuckles.  
  
I wriggle out of my panties, baring my kitty to her fingers, and then I resume sucking, moving back to the right titty.  
  
'My sweet good girl', she rasps, as she lubricates her fingers in my folds, then slides one finger deep into my honeypot. My vaginal walls clench around it greedily, wanting more; but she's not going to bring me off just yet. She just keeps her finger inside me, sharing that connection with me, as I continue to nurse, switching back and forth between left and right. Mummy's breasts are so fantastic! After some time, she adds a second finger, and begins slowly moving them inside me with a corkscrew motion. I whimper.  
  
'Does my sweet baby girl need to come?'  
  
I nod eagerly into the breast that fills my mouth. She curves her fingers, massaging upward in my honeypot ... giving me a delicious sensation unlike anything I've felt before.  
  
'That's your G spot, baby. Does that feel good?'  
  
I nod again, whimpering more desperately, my pelvis bucking against her fingers, wondering, with part of my brain, when Mummy's going to show me my A, B, C, D, E and F spots. But mostly my brain is just screaming that I need to come!  
  
'You are so beautiful, Chavah,' she whispers. 'Come for me now, come for Mummy, sweet girl. Give me your beautiful cummy. Oh, fuck, baby girl ... I'm coming too. Suck harder baby!'  
  
Her well-lubricated thumb rubs the hood of my stiff clitty while her other fingers rub my G spot, and I come, loving the perfect Mummy titty that fills my mouth, loving the perfect Mummy fingers moving inside me, sucking hard and biting down gently on her nipple.  
  
'My sweet girl,' she grunts, 'my Chavah, uunnnnggGGHHHH!'  
  
We pause for a minute to recover. Then she suddenly scoops me up in her arms, rising up from the couch, and she carries me into the bedroom. Despite her _zaftig_ figure, Mummy is a strong woman from all that gardening: there are muscles under the plush upholstery.  
  
She deposits me on the bed, tears off her skirt, yanks down her panties. She lies back in bed, tossing Pumbaa aside. Tough luck for you, Pumbaa: Mummy and I need the bed.  
  
'Baby girl ... your mouth on my kitty ... right now.'  
  
Mummy's kitty is not really a kitty ... it's more a great big powerful lioness, tawny fur and all. My mouth is her prey, and I rush to surrender to my hungry predator, burying my face between her thighs, offering the furry lioness my lips, my tongue, my fingers ... my heart.  
  
She comes three times for me. We cuddle for a while and catch our breath. Then she gets out Mr. McFeely – that’s what I call our feeldoe – and she gives me a deliciously thorough fucking, a real pelvic workout. I come twice in a row, which is rare for me. I'm usually too sensitive after I come for an immediate repeat.  
  
Afterwards, we get up and brush our teeth. I say my _ma’ariv_ prayer, then we settle back in bed. She reads me _The Bamboo Princess_ , by Toshi Maeda. We went to the public library a few days ago, to the children's section, and she checked out some story books for me. My parents never had time for bedtime stories when I was little, so this wonderful literature is all new to me. I love the soothing sound of her voice as she reads to me now, I love how she shows me the pictures (they give me ideas for my own drawings), I love the story itself, I love the comfort of her warm naked body against mine as sleep overtakes me.  
  
* * *  
  
 _Poopy_! Mummy has already left for school by the time I wake up. It's one of her busy teaching days. I wish she would wake me up too, so I could spend just a little time with her in the morning. Maybe I could ask for a rule about that. I feel bereft, waking up without her.  
  
I shower, dress, daven _shacharit_ , and go out to the kitchen. On days when Mummy's home, she cooks me nice breakfasts, but on her teaching days I just pour myself some cold cereal and milk. And tea. I do know how to make myself a cup of tea, with a teabag. I see Mummy has left me a tuna sandwich with carrot sticks and a cut-up apple in the fridge for lunch. I text her 'Thank you Mummy' with twenty smiley face emojis. A minute later she replies, 'Off to teach in a minute. Have a wonderful day, sweet girl. See you tonight.' Also with twenty smiley faces.  
  
I put on my art-smock and go down in the basement. Masha wants me to play around with watercolours. I try recreating, from memory, one of the pictures in The Bamboo Princess. I remember clouds reflected on the rippling surface of a lake, but I don't know quite how the illustrator got that effect: I need to see the picture again. I go upstairs to our bedroom to get the book. The phone rings.

'Hello?'  
  
'Hello, is this Joyce Er-kwoo-hart?', the woman on the other end mispronounces Mummy's name.  
  
'Um, no. She's at work now. I'm her, um, partner. Can I take a message?'  
  
'Could you please have her contact Dr Vandervoort's office as soon as possible. The doctor would like to meet with her about her test results.'  
  
'Um, what kind of results?' A knife-blade of fear slices into my guts.  
  
'I'm sorry, I can only reveal that information to the patient. Just please have her call our office as soon as possible. Thank you.' She hangs up.  
  
I'm the daughter of two doctors. My mum is an oncologist. I know medical offices don't call patients to tell them no worries, their test results are all clear. If they're calling, it's bad news. But Mummy hasn't mentioned any medical complaint. I've known Mummy for only a few weeks. Is this about a minor ailment, or is it a metastatic brain tumour? I feel ice forming around my heart. Fingers shaking, I text Mummy a message. But _shit_ , she's teaching now. She won't be able to answer for over an hour. Maybe she won't get to check her phone till lunchtime.  
  
I'm spiralling into ‘little space’, feeling very afraid and powerless, unable to cope. This is how I felt for much of the time in high school, after Bubbe grew sick, and then I lost her. But now I've got Mummy; the awareness breaks into my darkened consciousness like a ray of sunlight. I need to see her, to hold her, urgently. I need my Mummy! I've got to hold it together, just till I can see her. I put on my winter jacket, boots and mittens and set off to the university on foot. I start trying to make bargains in my head with Adonai, even though Rabbi Ruth says we can't do that. I haven't visited Mummy on campus before. As I walk along Gordon Street, across the river, I use my phone to find a campus map online; I locate the history department, Mackinnon Hall. I find her office number. I make my way there. Her office door is locked; no answer when I knock. I slump down on the floor by her door and wait. Students and more grown-up looking people walk past me in the hallway, all carrying backpacks or briefcases. I shrink when they look at me; it's obvious I don't belong here. I hope no one yells at me to leave. I stare at my phone, waiting for an answer to my text. Fifteen minutes pass.  
  
I hear her voice down the corridor, talking to some students ... something about Hyooganauts? I get up and run to her.  
  
'Mum -- Joyce!' I blurt out, sobbing.  
  
'Sweet girl, what's wrong?' She folds me in her arms, turns to her students, 'Sorry, come by during my office hours, OK?'  
  
She ushers me into her office and closes the door. I tell her about the phone call. She hugs me tight, murmuring reassurances, till I stop trembling. I'm still scared, but I have Mummy now. I gratefully inhale the scent of her hair, and it calms me down a little. As I hold her from behind, she looks up Dr. Vandervoort’s office number and calls them back.  
  
'Yes. Yes, OK... I see... Um-hmm... Anytime tomorrow is fine, the earlier the better. Nine a.m. then. OK, thank you.'  
  
She turns to me. 'Sweety, there's nothing to panic about at this point. I had a mammogram a few weeks ago. They found a spot that might be of concern, and they want to schedule a biopsy, they say. The doctor will explain it all to me tomorrow.'  
  
'Breast cancer?'  
  
My lower lip is trembling.

'Did they say anything about how ... um, advanced it might be?'  
  
'No. It has to be early, though, right? I get my mammograms regularly and this is the first time there's been any cause for concern.'  
  
'Breast cancer can be really aggressive, Mummy.' I squeeze her tightly, needily. 'It’s what killed Bubbe. Her own daughter is a cancer doctor, but she couldn't do anything for her, it spread too fast... I'm sorry, Mummy, I should be supporting you, and instead I'm dumping my fears on you.'  
  
She kisses me on the mouth. It's not a sexually hungry kiss, but it's not chaste either: it's searching and intimate, affirming our connection.  
  
'I'm glad you're here, sweet girl. I'm glad you came here to find me, to tell me in person. From where I'm standing, that feels like a whole lot of support. How old do you feel right now, sweet girl?'  
  
'Five. I'm really scared Mummy.'  
  
'Yes, it is scary, for me too. But I've got you, baby girl. Mummy's here.'  
  
'But I should be here for _you_.'  
  
'And you are, sweet girl. I said I feel totally supported by you. You're in this with me, I know, and I'm grateful for that. But I'm your Mummy, and I still need to take care of you, especially when you're in your little space. Now, let's try to keep things in perspective, OK? They say there's a "spot": it might be benign. Even if it's malignant, it might be just a small amount of tissue that has to be removed. If they have to do a radical mastectomy ... oh sweetie, I know how much you love Mummy's titties ...'  
  
'If they have to do that to save your life, Mummy, then to hell with your titties! It's _you_ I'm terrified of losing. Even without your breasts, you'll still be my Mummy, and you'll still be the hottest thing on two legs!'  
  
'Thank you, sweet girl.' She wipes a tear from her eye. 'I couldn't ask for more support. You're my good girl. Now, as I was saying, even if they do have to do a radical mastectomy, we'll still have _your_ beautiful titties to play with, sweet girl. Do you have any idea how much I love them?'  
  
'But they're so small.'  
  
'Nope, they're perfect. Are you still feeling too little for some big-girl playing?’ she asks. I shake my head. ‘Take off your top, sweet girl. Let me see your beautiful titties. Tights off too.'  
  
I obey. She takes me onto her lap, kissing my bare breasts, licking my puffy nipples, drawing them into her mouth. She reaches her hand under my skirt, between my thighs, pulling aside the gusset of my panties. As she continues sucking, she slides two fingers into my honeypot, rubbing my G-spot and clitoris till I quietly come for her.  
  
'My gumdrops, my sweet girl gumdrops. They're perfect. Mummy _loves_ them. Don't forget that.'  
  
She releases me, licking off her fingers. I put my top and tights back on. My nipples are still tingling.  
  
'So let's not drive ourselves crazy imagining the absolute worst, when it might be nothing at all. Let's be grateful for what we have, for as long as we have it. I have you, my sweet girl, with your perfect titties, and your perfect everything else. I've got a hell of a lot to be grateful for, pardon my French. Does Judaism teach us to be grateful?'  
  
'That's, like, _all_ it teaches. There's like a million _b'rachot_ \-- that means blessings -- you're supposed to say throughout the day, thanking Adonai for every thing that happens, when you get up, when you drink a glass of water, when you meet a new person. I don't even know most of them.'  
  
'Maybe we could talk to Rabbi Ruth about that at our next couples class? I bet she'll have some _b'rachot_ we could say together, or other spiritual practices she could recommend for us.'  
  
'OK Mummy.'  
  
'Now, let’s get cleaned up a little, and then we’ll go to the student union for some lunch. I have another class to teach at two.’

'I don't think I can eat anything, Mummy.'  
  
'You have to eat, Chaveleh. We have to keep living. I don't want to let fear control us. So ... lunch is mandatory. Do you want to go home after lunch, or wait for me in my office?'  
  
'Could I come to your class with you? I promise to be quiet. I'll sit in the corner and draw; you'll forget I'm even there.'  
  
'Of course I won't forget you're there, sweet girl. I'd love to have you there.'  
  
* * *  
  
I go to the doctor's office the next day with Mummy. The spot might be benign, Doctor Vandervoort tells us. It's difficult to tell the size of the lump from palpitation, given Mummy's macromastia. But if they find it's malignant, it's better to go ahead with the mastectomy -- how radical he can't predict -- rather than put Mummy under anaesthesia twice. He rattles off all this information at us, almost like a flight attendant doing the safety announcement on an airplane. I mention my mother's name, so he knows a senior oncologist is going to have her eyes on him about this patient, but he's not fazed by this; he doesn't break stride. He briskly hands us off to a nurse, who gives us a sheet of paper explaining the pre-op stuff. Nothing to eat or drink after eight tonight. Be at the hospital at seven tomorrow morning.  
  
We drive home. Mummy leaves a voice message for her department chair requesting medical leave till further notice. We work in the front yard a bit, tidying up the garden beds for winter. I cling to her like a baby koala the whole time she's making dinner: we both seem to need the physical contact. I get on the phone to my mother. She reassures me that Dr Vandervoort, though he can be a bit of a prick personally, is a very good surgeon, so Mummy is in good hands. She tells me that all the information he told us makes sense. For the first time since I can remember, I feel grateful for the workaholic doctor who is my mother. I thank her warmly. I tell her I love her. We're both sniffling back tears as she hangs up.  
  
After dinner, we go to bed early, and I have a long titty-time with Mummy. It might be the last time I get to love them. After a while, she wants to reciprocate, sucking on my itty-bitty titties. Then I kiss and suck some more on hers. She tells me my Jewish eyebrows are sexy, and I laugh. No sex tonight, just closeness. I daven _ma’ariv._ She reads me a few chapters of _Jenny Linsky_ by Esther Averill, about a cat who wears a red scarf and likes to ice-skate. I fall asleep to the sound of Mummy's voice.  
  
* * *

We awake to the grey half-light of winter. We get up, dress, and call a cab to take us to the hospital. The nurses take Mummy away from me. I sit in the waiting room, trying to read _Jenny Linsky_ , remembering the sound of Mummy's voice reading the same words. I think about the fact that I've only known Mummy a few weeks, and yet life without her is now unimaginable for me. The language from _B'reishit_ comes to my mind, how my soul cleaves to her, and we have become one flesh. There's a First Nations woman with me in the room; her son has some kind of acute lung/heart infection, she tells me. I include him in the silent _Mi Sheberach_ I've been praying over and over since yesterday. My dad comes by for a little while and sits with me. He holds my hand. Then he has to go. I sip tea from a styrofoam cup; I don't remember who gave it to me, probably my dad. The clock ticks slowly. A nurse calls my name...

A MILLION SMILEY-FACE EMOJIS!!!!!!

IT'S BENIGN! IT'S BENIGN! IT'S BENIGN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!  
  
We take a cab home together from the hospital. She's still woozy from the anaesthetic. I can't bear to let go of her for an instant.  
  
Once we're inside the door of our house, she takes off her jacket, blouse and bra. There's just a small bandage covering the incision on the outside of her left breast, which should be healed up within a week. I gently, reverently kiss her magnificent breasts again and again -- taking care to stay well away from the wound -- so happy that they're still going to be part of our life together. Even happier that we have a life together for them to be part of. Thank you Adonai!  
  
After dinner, my parents come by with champagne and a box of macaroons. They seem genuinely happy for us. They don't stay long: Mummy makes clear that she needs to rest. Actually what she wants is more titty-time with me, but she can't tell them that. I confine my sucking to the right breast, while my fingers explore her wetness.  
  
'Sweet girl?'  
  
'Yes Mummy?'  
  
'If you keep nursing on me regularly like this, I might start lactating pretty soon. How do you feel about that?'  
  
'Oh Mummy! YES! I mean, if that's OK with you.'  
  
'I read that milk production is good for breast health. A couple of milk-times a day keep the doctor away.'  
  
'Thank you Mummy! I don't need any Chanukkah or birthday presents ever again if I could have that.'  
  
She chuckles, stroking my hair. 'It'll be a nice present for me too. Look out though, I produced a ton of milk when I breastfed Alasdair. I'll need to get a new breast pump, for when I ... _aahh_! ... get engorged and you're not available to relieve me.'  
  
'Why wouldn't I be available?'  
  
'You might have the ... _uunnghh_ ... flu or something. Or you might be ... _oohhhh_! ... off showing your work at some hoity-toity Montreal art gallery.'  
  
'And why wouldn't you be with me in Montreal? You think I'm going to turn into some kind of jet-setter who runs off to hoity-toity art shows and leaves her Mummy behind?'  
  
'No, I don't think that. Love you, sweet girl. _Mmmm_ , gonna come soon ...'  
  
'Love you too Mummy. You and your sexy Scottish eyebrows. Come for me, _yes_!!!'

  
  


* * *

  
  


Bit by bit, Mummy has been integrating me into her life. I wish I could reciprocate, but I didn't really have much of a life before I met her. Well, she's met my parents, and we attend shul together now. Anyway, a week ago we had dinner at the house of Mummy's friend (and now my art teacher) Masha and her husband Diego. A few days ago, she took me to a history department party, where I met a bunch of her colleagues and students. We didn't stay long: social situations like that, where I meet a whole whack of new people, are stressful for me, so Mummy made sure I didn't get overwhelmed.  
  
It's mid-November now, the 16th of Cheshvan in the Hebrew calendar. In fact, tonight is the one-month anniversary of our walk in the park.  
  
'Sweet girl, I want to take you out to dinner tonight for our month-iversary. I have been such a boring homebody ... I'm sorry, I've never taken you out for a real date like you deserve.'  
  
At the moment, I'm contentedly lying on the couch with my head in Mummy's lap. One of her breasts fills my mouth. We've been having our regular late-afternoon titty-time. About a week ago, Mummy's milk came in: all that oral attention I've been paying to her breasts has gotten her maternal hormones humming. Now Mummy comes home from school with her breasts full of milk for me. We have titty-time first thing in the morning too, which is just about the nicest way to wake up ever invented.  
  
Reluctantly, I release her nipple from my mouth. 'It's OK Mummy, I like being a homebody with you.'  
  
I resume sucking, not because there's more milk -- I've pretty much emptied both sides by this point -- but just because I love having Mummy's nipple in my mouth.  
  
'Thank you, sweet girl. Be that as it may ... I want to go some place nice tonight ... have a really nice meal with you, dress up a bit, show off my beautiful girlfriend a little bit. Would you indulge me, sweet girl?'  
  
'Of course Mummy. Um, what should I wear?'  
  
'Let me show you.'  
  
We get up and she leads me to the bedroom. I'll do anything Mummy asks, of course, and wear anything she wants me to. But I don't really feel comfortable in grown-up outfits. Or make-up. They make me feel like an imposter, like I'm wearing a disguise but the disguise doesn't fool anyone. I've described this feeling to Mummy: she calls it 'little dysphoria'. So I don't own the sort of elegant outfit that goes with the swanky evening Mummy is planning.  
  
'As it happens,' she pulls a Hudson's Bay bag out of the closet, 'I picked up a new dress for you today, at lunchtime. Let's see how you like it.'  
  
The dress is green velvet, with long sleeves, a high neckline, and white lace trim: the sort of thing a twelve-year-old girl might wear for a piano recital. When I try it on, I see that the hem only comes down to mid-thigh. And it hugs my petite figure.  
  
'Oh baby girl ... I'm not gonna be able to keep my hands off you in that! Please say you like it?'  
  
OK, this is 'little' enough for me to feel comfortable in, and sexy enough to turn Mummy on. Which turns me on. Which makes this dress perfect. Even if it weren't, the hunger in Mummy's eyes right now would make it totally worth it.  
  
'I love it Mummy! Thank you.'  
  
She goes into the closet to put on her own dress, and when she reemerges, I nearly have a spontaneous orgasm. The little black dress she's wearing hugs her figure as well ... but Mummy has a whole lot more figure to hug! The satin fabric can barely contain her abundant hips. Her curves could stop traffic. The diaphanous white shawl draped around her shoulders does nothing to hide the prominence of her bust.  
  
'Talk about not being able to keep my hands off you ... _oy gevalt_ , Mummy!'  
  
* * *  
  
We take an Uber to the fancy-shmancy Lebanese restaurant Mummy has chosen, so she can have some wine with dinner and not have to worry about driving afterwards. (I never take more than a sip of wine, but I can't drive.) I'm not very adventuresome when it comes to trying new foods. But when I was thirteen, I went on a rare vacation with my family to Israel, for my _bat mitzvah._ I had a crush on our _madrikhah_ (tour guide), so I tried whatever food she suggested, hence I'm already familiar with felafel, hummus, and other middle-eastern dishes. That's why Mummy picked this restaurant. She orders the combination kebab platter for two, hold the labneh (that wouldn't be kosher with the meat). Plus a carafe of their Pinot Grigio.  
  
Our waiter, Marcel, brings one glass. Mummy asks for a second glass, for me. He stiffens.  
  
'But of course ... if I might see some proof of age for ... Mademoiselle?'  
  
Clearly he thinks I'm her under-age daughter. At Mummy's insistence I get out my ID. He examines it carefully, shows it to the maitre d'. They confer. Finally, he brings a second glass.  
  
'She's my girlfriend,' Mummy smiles proudly, refusing to be embarrassed, 'and I'm the luckiest woman in the world.'  
  
'Yes Madame,' Marcel nods, tight-lipped, as he pours the wine.  
  
Well, if Mummy's not going to be embarrassed, then neither am I. In fact, I'm going to up the ante.  
  
'She's wrong, Marcel. I'm the lucky one! But darling ... are you sure _you_ should be drinking wine? Remember, you are breastfeeding your little one.'  
  
Mummy blushes scarlet. Then she counter-attacks. 'Oh, I don't think a little wine in my breastmilk will do you any harm, will it baby girl? Especially if you're going to have a glass yourself. Thank you Marcel, that will be all for now.'  
  
'L'chaim,' Mummy says, and we sip our wine. Yuck. It's even drier than the _kiddush_ wine at our shul. Why can't people just serve sweet Manischewitz like my Bubbe used to do?  
  
Mummy calls him over again. 'You know what, Marcel, my baby girl doesn't want her wine after all. Can you please bring her ... say, a Shirley Temple instead?'  
  
'Certainly Madame.' By now, he is looking at us like we're from the Addams Family.  
  
'That was fun!' Mummy smirks mischievously after Marcel leaves us. 'I'll leave him a hefty tip to make up for messing with him.'  
  
'I haven't seen this “Naughty Mummy” side of you before. I like it.'  
  
'Oh yeah? There's more where that came from, sweet girl.'  
  
'Such as ...?'  
  
She thinks for a moment, then her face lights up with a diabolical smile.  
  
'Go to the women's room right now. Take your panties off and put them in my purse here and bring them back to me.'  
  
It's my turn to blush.

'Mummy, you seriously want me to walk back to the table ... in this short dress with no panties on, and my kitty all drooly?'  
  
'Is my baby girl's sweet kitty drooly already?’ she licks her lips, ‘OK, now I'm _really_ looking forward to sniffing those panties. Let's hope you don't slip and fall on the way back to the table, darling,' she smirks. 'I wanted to show you off tonight but not quite to that degree. What colour is the traffic light, sweet girl?'  
  
'Green!' I flash a conspiratorial grin at her and head off to the washroom, Mummy's little clutch purse in my hand. I'm Naughty Mummy's good girl.  
  
* * *  
  
'What's wrong, Mummy?'  
  
She's sitting on the living room couch, looking at email on her phone, biting her lip and frowning.  
  
'It's Alasdair. His girlfriend dumped him. He sounds pretty woebegone.'  
  
'Poor guy. Classic pre-Christmas break-up.'  
  
'Exactly. Saves her having to buy him a present.'  
  
'The bitch.'  
  
Mummy lowers her eyebrows at me.  
  
'Pardon my French?' I add. She chuckles.

'So what can we do for poor Aly?' I ask.  
  
She pauses to think.  
  
'We could go visit him for the weekend, get his mind off how miserable he is.'  
  
'I'd come too?'  
  
'Of course you'd come too. I couldn't be without my good girl for all that time! And it's high time my son met you in person.'  
  
'A road trip with you? I'd love that.'  
  
'I could bring Aly some of my Nanaimo bars. Those always used to cheer him up.'  
  
'Hey, you've never made me Nanaimo bars.'  
  
'I haven't?' She looks sincerely remorse-stricken. 'I'm so sorry, baby girl ...'  
  
'Mummy, it's OK, I'm kidding! I can wait a few days. I assume Aly will share some with me. Y'know, I haven't been to Montreal since, like, grade five.'  
  
'Don't you have an older sister at McGill?'  
  
'Shoshanah. Yeah. In law school.'  
  
'How come you hardly ever mention her?'  
  
'We didn't get along very well when we were younger. She was the perfect daughter and I was the black sheep.'  
  
'Well, that's an outdated story, sweet girl. Maybe you could try again with her, now that you're both adults.'  
  
'Can we include her in this visit?'  
  
'Yes, I'd like to meet her.'  
  
'OK Mummy, I'll let her know we're coming.'  
  
* * *  
  
We pack Wednesday night. Thursday, Mummy teaches. When she comes home around four-thirty, we take a few minutes for some much-needed titty-time, then load up the car and head east on 401. We get stuck for a while in rush hour around Toronto, but after that it's clear sailing. We had already decided (well, Mummy decided and I agreed of course ... what do I know about driving?) to spend the night in Kingston, rather than go non-stop and arrive in the middle of the night. There's a nice old-fashioned diner in Kingston Mummy wants to take me to. But when we get there, we find it's been replaced by a Tim Horton's. Instead, we have dinner at the Humpty's that's right next to our motel.  
  
We check into our room. I have my dessert: more breastmilk from Mummy. But we're tired and we fall asleep without making love.  
  
I wake up in the wee hours of the morning, under the covers, with my head resting on Mummy's pillowy tummy, my torso ensconced between her thighs. I guess I got cold during the night and snuggled down here to get warm. Mummy's pubic hair is tickling my chest and neck. I scoot down a few inches and nuzzle her furry mound. My beautiful lioness. She giggles sleepily, and begins stroking my hair. I inhale the intoxicating scent of her: she's getting aroused, and so am I!  
  
'Go ahead, sweet girl. Eat me.'  
  
I don't need to be asked twice. I plunge my tongue into her folds, lapping up the Mummy nectar that I find there, sucking on her ripe rubyfruit, loving the smell and taste of my Juicy Joyce! Mummy Mummy Mummy, I got love in my tummy!  
  
'Oh sweet girl ... that's so _good_. Gonna come soon ...'  
  
I dip my index finger in her honeypot, then trace a wet trail back along her perineum, and slip it deep in her tushy. She squeals, her sphincter clenches down on my finger, and her kitty erupts in a spray of Joyce Juice, right into my thirsty mouth.  
  
She gets up and goes to the washroom to find her toiletry bag, which has the feeldoe. She comes back to the bedroom wearing it, with a well-lubricated condom rolled onto the business end of it.  
  
'My turn, Little Anal Annie,' she growls lustfully. 'Now that we're both wide awake. Roll over on your tummy, baby girl, it's past time I introduced Mr. McFeely to your sweet bum. What's the traffic light colour?'  
  
'Green, Mummy! My tushy belongs to you too.'  
  
'Damn right she does, pardon my French.'  
  
In the past week, Mummy's been playing with my tushy a lot, rimming it, fingering it; she hasn't fucked me in there with the feeldoe yet, but I suspected she was leading up to this. I've been hoping for it. I wasn't expecting it at 3 am in a motel room in Kingston. But as she said, it's past time.  
  
She settles over me, her thighs straddling mine. I reach back and spread my bumcheeks for her. She squirts a dollop of lube on my tushy-hole and works it in me with her finger. She begins a double-thumb-twiddling massage right on my pucker that opens me right up back there. I groan with pleasure. I feel the love, and the desire, in her touch. The head of the feeldoe presses against my ring.  
  
'Relax, baby girl. Mummy's got you. I love you.'  
  
'I know, Mummy. I'm your good girl.'  
  
The head pops inside. There's a slight burning sensation as my sphincter is stretched tight, like when I'm making a really big firm poo. But going the wrong direction. It's confusing.  
  
'Yellow, Mummy.'  
  
'I'm not hurting you, sweet girl?'  
  
'It's OK Mummy. Keep it in me. Just give me a second.'  
  
'I'm so proud of you, sweet girl. You are so perfect.'  
  
I breathe deeply; my sphincter isn't burning anymore now. I squeeze down on the feeldoe head: it actually feels good.  
  
'Mummy?'  
  
'Yes sweet girl?'  
  
'Green!'  
  
I gasp as I feel the shaft sink down into me. Jillions of nerve endings in there are going off.  
  
'That's it, baby girl. I'm in all the way.'  
  
Then she switches on the vibrator. My nervous system is flooded with pleasure  
  
Mummy's lying on top of me now, excitedly kissing my shoulders and neck. Her hands reach underneath me to cup my breasts. She begins moving the buzzing feeldoe in me. I feel totally open to her. I'm hers. My clitty is on fire; I reach down under me and rub it as Mummy pistons Mr McFeely in and out of my rear passage.  
  
'Oh ... ohhh FUCK me Mummy!' I wail.  
  
'That's what I'm doing, baby girl,' she chuckles.  
  
'Harder please. Oh yesss, oh yesssssss ... '  
  
Mummy begins grunting as she pounds into me, kneading my itty-bitty titties with her hands. _Gevalt_ , she's strong as an ox.  
  
'Unnghh, I'm coming! Come with me, Chavah, sweet girl!'  
  
'Love you Mummy, love you, love you ... _ahhhhHHHHHH_!'  
  
A wave of warm pleasure blossoms deep in my tushy and spreads out through my body. I feel it enveloping Mummy and her orgasm. Deep happiness in every cell of my body, and every cell of hers. I'm Mummy's good girl.  
  
* * *  
  
We roll into Montreal just before noon. Aly shares a house with a bunch of other grad students. I'm not sure about my sister's roommate situation but I don't want to impose. So we've booked an AirBnB. Well, it’s an online BnB, but it’s actually called BookemDano.com. (Mummy’s boycotting AirBnB because of what they do in the West Bank settlements.) We use the code they sent us to unlock the door, and bring our luggage in. Mummy calls Aly, and we meet near the McGill campus for lunch.  
  
He's taller than I expected, and lean as a rail, nothing like Mummy's build. And he's calm, laid-back; he doesn't have Mummy's radiant energy. But he has her colouring, and her eyes and mouth. And a lot of her little mannerisms. It's odd seeing these beloved traits in someone I don't know. A man no less.  
  
Alasdair takes us to a Vietnamese restaurant. I feel apprehensive as I look over the menu: I don't know Vietnamese food; there's nothing familiar here. But Mummy orders me some grilled chicken skewers with rice. I shift around discretely in my chair: my tushy is still nicely sore from last night.  
  
Mummy gets up to use the washroom, leaving me alone with her son. There's an awkward tension between us.  
  
'Look,' I blurt out, 'I'm younger than you and I'm dating your mum. I know that has to feel weird to you.'  
  
'Yeah, a bit. OK I'll be honest, at first it was pretty fuckin' hard to wrap my head around,' he laughs, 'pardon my French. I know it's not my place to say who mum should or shouldn't date, but, yeah, I've been secretly wondering whether she was having some kind of mid-life crisis or whatnot. But now that I've met you ... I have to say: I've never seen mum this happy before. And, I dunno, I can see you two really love each other ... so, yeah, I guess I approve. Uh, so, welcome to the family, Chavah. Are you a hugger?'  
  
'Normally no, not with people I've just met. But if we're family now, sure.'  
  
We get up and hug politely. We sit back down.  
  
'Thanks Aly. I hear, um, you've been going through a rough patch lately.'  
  
He shrugs. 'Yeah, on the relationship front. My research supervisor just landed a huge NSERC though, so my funding is secure till I finish my degree. That helps.'  
  
'I'm sure a nice woman is going to snap you up very soon.'  
  
'I wouldn't say no to a little snapping. But I'm not going to put any energy into looking. Not for a while.'  
  
'Not looking for what?' Mummy asks, as she rejoins us.  
  
He quickly recaps for her the last part of our conversation.  
  
'Um, by the way, what's an NSERC?' I ask.  
  
'Something an historian never gets,' Mummy replies sardonically. 'Congratulations, to you and your supervisor.' She raises her glass of beer in a toast.  
  
My chicken and rice are yummy. Now I know what to ask for if I'm in a Vietnamese restaurant again.  
  
* * *  
  
After lunch, Alasdair has to TA two sections back-to-back (whatever that means), so Mummy and I go off and explore the old city and Mont-Royal Park. She buys me a bunnyhug hoodie that says 'La belle province.' The atmosphere and scenery are making me feel totally romantic for Mummy. The paddleboat rental shack is closed up for the winter. I pull Mummy behind it and make out with her for a long time.  
  
An old guy in a tuque walks past us and mutters something at us in Joual, the impenetrable Montreal dialect of French. Mummy answers him angrily, and he scurries off.  
  
'What did he say?'  
  
'Never mind, sweet girl. Let's just say "pardon my French".'  
  
'Ha ha. You actually do speak French. Montreal French no less.'  
  
'I lived here for four years, sweetie. I did my PhD here.'  
  
We take a bus back to the neighbourhood of our BnB, where the car is parked. We've brought three large trays of home-made Nanaimo bars in the car from Guelph. We now drive over to Aly's house and deliver them to him and his housemates. I have one. They are fantastic, almost better than sex. (I said _almost_.) I help myself to another one. Then one more.  
  
'No more, sweetie, or you'll spoil your appetite for dinner.'

 _Poopy._ Maybe she’ll let me have another one later, for dessert.

We're due at my sister's place at six, Alasdair too. It turns out her apartment is in walking distance from Aly's house.  
  
Shoshanah greets me at the door with a squee of welcome and a warm hug. Then she hugs Mummy. She even hugs Alasdair.  
  
'Hey,' she says, 'I've seen you around before. Don't you hang out at that cafe by Beaubien Park? Scribbling genius math stuff on the walls with your buddies, right?'  
  
'Haven't been there in a while,' he answers, 'but yeah, they have chalkboard walls. Wait ... you're the girl -- sorry, woman -- with the fedora, right? You sing in a klezmer band?'  
  
'You, um, you noticed me?'  
  
Shoshanah inherited mum's tits. Of course he noticed her.  
  
'I couldn't understand a word of what you were singing about, but it was fun to listen to. And you have a fantastic voice. Was that ... Hebrew?'  
  
'Yiddish.'

'They're not the same?'

'Nope.'  
  
She's beaming at him. He's beaming back at her.  
  
'So, Shoshanah,' he asks, 'you study music?'  
  
She shakes her head. 'Law. I sing purely as an amateur.'  
  
She heads into the kitchen to get dinner ready, and Aly follows closely on her heels, like a happy puppy.  
  
Mummy and I look at each other.  
  
'They, uh, seem to have hit it off well,' Mummy says.  
  
'They barely noticed us. Looks like Aly has been snapped.'  
  
For the rest of the weekend, Aly and Shoshanah both want to come along on all our outings -- to the Reform shul on Saturday morning, to museums, to the botanical garden, to meals out and meals at Shoshanah's place. By Sunday, I notice they're discretely holding hands under the table.  
  
Shoshanah does interact with me too. She tells me she's excited about my art school plans. She tells me she likes Joyce, she's happy for me. We reminisce about our shared childhoods. All my life I felt I had to compete with her. And fail at it. It's nice now to be able to just relate to her as a sister. But mostly her attention is on Alasdair.  
  
Well, we came out here to cheer Aly up. Looks like our job is done. We say our goodbyes Sunday night. Shoshanah and Aly will both be back in Guelph for the holidays in a few weeks -- arriving together, I expect.  
  
On Monday morning we get in the car and start the six-hour drive home. En route, I get a grateful text from Shoshanah, gushing excitement about Aly. Mummy gets a similar email from Aly about Shoshanah.  
  
This trip was fun, but I miss our home. I miss making my art. I even miss that rascal Pumbaa. It's good to get back. We pull up in front of our house a little after four.  
  
Titty-time!  
  
We dump our luggage by the front door and make a beeline for the couch. Mummy unbuttons her blouse and unclips her bra. Her titty fills my grateful mouth, as I begin swallowing her sweet breastmilk.  
  
'Love you, sweet girl,' she sighs happily.  
  
'Mmmm mmm mmmmm,' I happily reply.  
  
* * *  
  
Epilogue  
  
* * *  
  
Christmas/Chanukkah has come and gone. The Alasdair-Shoshanah relationship blossomed as I expected. Shortly after they get back to Montreal, we hear he's moved in with her.

My art classes have started: foundation studio, art history, intro art theory (taught by Masha), plus writing and world history. I associate the campus with visiting Mummy for lunch, so it feels like friendly terrain to me now. Some of the other art students seem insecure and competitive, but mostly they're cool. They're mostly fresh out of high school. I develop a friendship with another art student in his early twenties named Mitch. The classes keep me busy, especially studio.

Tonight is the three month anniversary of my walk in the park with Mummy. She makes me my favourite dinner, meatloaf with kasha varnishkes. I present her with my first oil painting, a still life of some odds and ends I found on our kitchen counter. She _kvells_ over it and then kisses me for a long time. Then she gets her purse.  
  
'Sweet girl, that cancer scare I had a few months ago got me thinking. About long-term things. What would happen to you if something bad happened to me? Bank accounts and pensions and title to this house, stuff like that. I know you don’t want to have to think about that sort of thing, but I'd want you to be taken care of, sweetie. It would all be a lot easier to set up if ...'  
  
She retrieves a little white box from her purse.  
  
'If you would marry me, sweet girl. Be my wife.'  
  
My heart is pounding.  
  
'I ... I don't want anything between us to change. You'll still be my Mummy?'

'Of course. And you'll still be my good girl. That’s forever, no matter what – _and I’ve got the bedsheet to prove it_. This is just about the externals. Plus we get to throw a big party at your parents' expense. We'll hire your sister's klezmer band from Montreal. Darling, we lesbians fought long and hard for the right to marry, so let's exercise that right. Please say yes, sweet girl.'  
  
'Of course yes! You don't even have to ask!' I sniff back my tears.  
  
'Well, yes I do. Technically. It's sort of a key part of the marriage proposal.'  
  
'Smartarse Mummy. You know I'll say yes.'  
  
'I think you already did.'  
  
Mummy puts the ring on my trembling finger.  
  
'Yep, I sure did. Let's call Rabbi Ruth.'


End file.
